


Queen of the Night

by pantsoffdanceoff



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Orgasm Delay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoffdanceoff/pseuds/pantsoffdanceoff
Summary: Aziraphale might have a thing for Nanny Ashtoreth in tartan. Crowley takes full advantage of it.





	Queen of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> For the [kinkmeme prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=29288&style=site#cmt29288):
> 
> Aziraphale finds Crowley the Nanny irresistible and does something about it.

“Oh deary, deary me.”

Crowley turned and found Aziraphale wringing his hands in front of young Warlock’s bedroom window, and saying, “They plants will be the death of I. Why they—”

“Hsst,” snapped Crowley, peering around the corner to make sure they were alone. “And stop that. It’s humiliating.”

Aziraphale pouted. The spirit gum was already failing, and one of his ridiculous fake eyebrows was coming loose at the edges. “I suppose not everyone appreciates art,” he sniffed, thankfully dropping the terrible acting job, “But I really do need help with the bushes.”

Crowley sighed. He’d been giving Aziraphale’s yew hedging a stern talking to, and his pansies and his cedars, it was true, but only because Aziraphale had been lending a hand with the dog [1]. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go refresh their memories. But you really need to get a move on.” Already, the scent of the maid’s resentment was wafting up the stairs. “And don’t come in the house again. You can’t be seen here.”

Two days later, Aziraphale appeared again behind him.

“What?” hissed Crowley, ducking into the nearest alcove.

“Oh, don’t look so alarmed,” said Aziraphale, looking rather pleased with himself. “I’m wearing a disguise.”

He had indeed lost the Brother Francis getup, but the only thing that was different from his regular outfit was—

“Oh, a new bow tie?” said Crowley, feeling his eyebrows climb towards his hairline. “You really think that’s going to throw the humans off?”

Aziraphale looked flustered. “Well, it’s not like you’ve been changing up your attire.”

Annoyance coiled under Crowley’s ribs. He drew himself up to his full height and said, in Nanny Ashtoreth’s icy tones, “Atweel I’m more unforgettable than that.”

Aziraphale’s ears turned pink.

Oh, _interesting_. “Really?” said Crowley in his normal voice.

“I like the Scots,” said Aziraphale, hotly. “They’re good people.”

Crowley waited.

“And they wear tartan well,” Aziraphale muttered into his collar.

“Well, I’m not whipping up tartan knickers for you,” said Crowley, in a tone he meant to be teasing, but then Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down and then back up too fast to be anything but guilty. Something ignited deep in Crowley’s belly.

Crowley licked his glossy lips and said, in Ashtoreth’s voice, “Would ye like tae see what’s under my skirt, dear?”

Aziraphale’s hand twitched involuntarily towards him, and then away. His eyes were huge, fixed on Crowley’s ear like they’d rather be looking somewhere further south. Crowley wasn’t sure who was tempting whom here.

A floorboard creaked. The chef was back from her smoke break, bringing in a miasma of bruised ego and burnt tobacco.

When Crowley turned back around, Aziraphale was gone.

The thing was, Aziraphale hadn’t been wrong about his outfit. The last time Crowley had dressed up as a nanny, the industrial revolution had been in its infancy, and clothing had been much less disposable. He’d remembered to update his wardrobe for this job, but not the modern attitude that came with it.

He started small. After all, a drastic change after weeks of wearing the same outfit would attract more attention than if he didn’t change anything at all. Changing the bow on his blouse was only a moment’s work.

The effect on Aziraphale lasted much longer.

“Don’t you think this is a bit flash?” he said chidingly, like his thumb was smoothing down the tails of the bow, stroking over Crowley’s collarbone.

He had similar objections to the tartan lining of Crowley’s double-breasted coat the next day, finger lingering inside his cuff, against his bare wrist. And to the tartan trim of his hat the day after that, gently tucking an imaginary stray curl[2] behind Crowley’s ear. And to the subtle tartan pattern of his blouse, black on black on black, when Crowley was starting to press his luck.

“Really, now?” said Aziraphale, smoothing down his neatly-pressed collar.

Crowley wanted to lean into that touch. “Afraid I might be a bad influence on young Warlock?” he said. Aziraphale still hadn’t told him to drop the accent. “Teach him tae destroy the Earth, grind his enemies under his heel, and sprunt after fast women in tartan?”

Aziraphale paused, his hand just above Crowley’s heart. He frowned. “Well, I suppose that is your job, isn’t it?”

His lips were just inches away.

Gasoline and oily smugness wafted from the end of the long driveway. Crowley pulled Aziraphale into the nearest closet and sealed his mouth over the angel’s. To his credit, Aziraphale only put up a token protest before warm hands were sliding firmly, if chastely, across Crowley’s shoulders and arms.

His mouth was hot and eager, and it wasn’t long before Crowley couldn’t take it anymore and dragged Aziraphale’s hands where he needed them.

“What—” said Aziraphale, his hands reflexively tightening around Crowley’s breasts as he jumped in surprise.

Crowley pulled him back in by his surprisingly soft curls to moan into his mouth. The car was rounding the final bend towards the house. He loosened the top buttons of his blouse with shaking hands, hoping Aziraphale would get the hint.

Hands plunged into his blouse, the heat seeping through his thin chemise.

It was almost better than having Aziraphale’s touch against his bare skin, the maddening rub of soft cotton making him burn all the hotter. Crowley gasped into Aziraphale’s mouth, clutching at his shoulders, his hair. He was unbearable wet, just the press of his thighs alone making his knees tremble.

And then Aziraphale tore his mouth away from Crowley, leaving him to gasp, “Angel, where dae ye think yer—”

Crowley had to stuff a fist into his mouth to stifle his cry. Aziraphale’s mouth seared through the thin fabric of his chemise, his tongue dragging wet cotton over his nipple. His other hand kept rubbing gentle circles into his other breast, and Crowley was going to kill whoever taught Aziraphale the pleasures of the flesh, tear them from limb to limb for getting there first, before Crowley could—his knees buckled as Aziraphale sucked on a nipple, the sensation going straight to Crowley’s clit.

He was going to come like this, clutching Aziraphale desperately to him, falling apart under the angel’s hands and mouth.

A door slammed open. Aziraphale jerked up at the sound, his eyes wild and his hair wilder still. Crowley pressed a thumb against that red, debauched mouth and completely failed to hear anything he said until “—can’t be seen here together.”

Already, the angel was running an apologetic hand up Crowley’s sternum, miracling his blouse back to its original, starched appearance.

“Ye cannae just—” Crowley lurched forward, pushed by a firm hand between the shoulder blades out of the closet as the angel apparently really _could just_ , almost tripping over young Warlord.

“Nanny, nanny! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” said the Antichrist, Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, and Thwarter of Quickies in Closets[3].

Crowley pasted on Ashtoreth’s patient smile and didn’t look behind him, where an angel would no longer be. “And now ye found me, dear. Did ye like yer piano lesson?”

It was even worse from there.

On Tuesday, Aziraphale found him by the stairs, finding sensitive areas Crowley didn’t even know existed under his jaw as he desperately tried to keep quiet. On Wednesday, Aziraphale followed him into the pantry and played with sliver of skin above his knickers as they necked. Crowley had no idea it was an erogenous zone.

On Thursday, Aziraphale left him alone. Crowley gave everyone in the household an unbearable itch that acted up right when they stopped thinking about it, just deep enough that scratching it did no good. He relished in the shared misery.

Most of it was his fault, Crowley knew. He could have stopped wearing hints of tartan where he wanted Aziraphale’s hands on him. He could have gone home and stuck a hand down his knickers and rubbed one out. But there was something enticing in the sweet torment, the want simmering in his veins, waiting to boil over, waiting for Aziraphale to finally push him over the edge.

On Friday, Crowley dressed carefully.

Nanny’s outfit never changed much. Chemise, knickers, stockings. Blouse, skirt, boots. Overcoat, hat, carpet bag and an umbrella for a final touch. He manifested it all onto his corporeal body, adjusting the fabric until it was just right. After all, the devil was in the details.

The details were also his own undoing. His stockings slid maddeningly smooth against his thighs as he walked, the thin silk chemise brushed across his nipples, his knickers brushed across his ass like a certain angel’s touch. By the time Aziraphale found him in the ambassador’s study, it was all Crowley could do to not writhe against the feeling of silk against his skin.

“Is this a temptation?” said Aziraphale, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Does it look like a temptation?” hissed Crowley, sat on the ambassador’s desk so that things would stop rubbing in places that would drive him mad, clenching his fists in his skirt to keep them from reaching for his clit right then and there. “I’m dying here, angel.”

Aziraphale approached him like a mouse approaching a snake, slowly, carefully, hypnotised.

“This is a little much,” he said, brushing aside the hem of Crowley’s skirt to thumb at the tartan cuff of his boot.

Crowley gasped at the feeling of his knuckles against his silk stockings. “I may have run out of subtlety.”

“I see,” said Aziraphale, following the tartan pattern of his stockings up to the knee. “Subtlety about what?”

Crowley spread his knees, his skirt loose enough to allow it for once. He felt molten to the core, like Aziraphale could take him and remold him to any shape he liked before Crowley cooled and re-solidified. “Anything ye want.”

Aziraphale’s fingers left a trail of goosebumps behind as they found the lace tops of his stockings and paused at the edge of his knickers.

“You said no tartan knickers,” breathed Aziraphale.

“I lied,” said Crowley, “Purview of demons and all that. Ye know, angel—”

A hot wet mouth pressed against the inside of his knee. Every coherent thought he’d ever had flew out of Crowley’s heads, his world narrowing down to Aziraphale’s curls between his fingers, Aziraphale’s lovely, frustratingly gentle mouth pressed kisses up his thighs.

Crowley managed to scrape together enough coherence to growl, “Sometime this century would be nice.”

Aziraphale looked up from between Crowley’s thighs, a surprisingly unholy twinkle in his bright eyes. “You did say anything I wanted,” he said, before ducking down to lick a stripe across the mess Crowley had already made of his knickers.

If Crowley thought he burned hot before, it was nothing compared to this. Fire roared up his spine, not made of brimstone, but the terrifying mercy of Upstairs. He was among the stars again, bringing form and light to the celestial sphere, spreading Her glory across the night sky, with nothing but love in his heart.

He didn’t realise he was sobbing until Aziraphale pressed a palm against his mouth, his other hand still petting over Crowley’s silk knickers, stoking the flames higher. “Shh,” he said, his lips glistening with—Crowley trembled with the realisation—Crowley’s desire.

He wanted to push Aziraphale down and suck his cock. He wanted to kiss him and wrap him in his wings. He wasn’t sure which was more terrifying.

He licked Aziraphale’s palm.

It got him the response he wanted. Aziraphale jumped and drew his hand back, glaring at Crowley. Crowley smiled. “Make me,” he hissed.

Aziraphale replaced his hand with his mouth, biting Crowley’s lip hard enough to make him shiver. Bastard. Crowley bit back and soon they were trading messy kisses while Crowley ground against the heel of Aziraphale’s hand, hurling towards orgasm at a dizzy speed.

A single finger slipped under his knickers, trailing up his hip bone, and Crowley came.

The first thing he noticed was the light coming in the wrong direction for his flat. The second was that he wasn’t in his flat.

The third, as he peeled himself off the sweat-slicked surface of the ambassador’s behemoth of a desk with trembling arms, was that he was alone, followed shortly by a list of other unpleasant realisations.

The seventh, when he unclenched his fist, was that he was holding Aziraphale’s bow tie, apparently torn off at some point during their—during.

The next day was Saturday. Warlock spent his weekends with his parents, presumably doing whatever it was that American families did. Eating hot dogs, perhaps, or finding mysterious terrorists[4]. Crowley thought of having a nap.

Except whatever blessed flame that had been lit in him wouldn’t let him sleep.

He thought up a cock, and then when that didn’t work, thought up a cunt. Soft, warm, slick inside. Usually he’d be already halfway there, clit eager and shiveringly sensitive under his fingers. He circled a few times. Nothing.

Crowley had a few standbys for situations like this. He prided himself on being a demon with some creativity[5], but sometimes a demon needed all his imagination for other things. There was the Roman bath slave, scrubbing him down and oiling him up before soiling him again. There was the pirate who tied him up and took her pleasure from him any time she wanted. There was the—

He rolled over sourly. Nothing, nada, zilch. His eyes fell on the nightstand, where a crumpled tartan bow tie drooped.

His clit gave an interested twitch.

“Oh, fine,” he said to no one in particular, and reached out and grabbed it.

It was stiff and woollen under his hand, because of course Aziraphale went for wool, and still smelled a bit of the angel’s aftershave. Feeling like an idiot, he brought it up to his face. Citrus and warm skin and that smell of righteousness that no angel seemed to be able to escape, not even Aziraphale. His fingers slipped through the sudden slick, gliding across his tingling clit. Crowley gasped.

He circled his clit a few more times before he started grinding the heel of his palm against himself for no reason he wanted to examine, rougher than he usually treated himself but still not enough.

His cunt clenched, empty.

Crowley stuffed two fingers in, and then when the burn wasn’t enough, three. He was distantly aware that he was moaning on every exhale, hips greedily circling for more. What would it be like to have Aziraphale hands on him? His cock?

Crowley’s fingers curled at the thought. He hung, for one exhilarating moment, at the precipice ( _what if Aziraphale were there with him?_ ), and came.

Instead of being banked, the fire in Crowley burned hotter than before. He wanted more.

He couldn’t stay in the flat. Aziraphale wasn’t in his bookstore, wasn’t in the half dozen cafes and restaurants he liked to patronise in the summer. On a hunch, he tried the Dowling estate, and found him.

Aziraphale crouched in the grass, a lonely lump under the waning moon, speaking to a pot of pansies.

“—don't know what to tell you,” he was saying, seriously, “I could ask my colleague to come talk to you, but you and I both know how that will end.”

The pansy slouched insouciantly, apparently unmoved.

“He’s right,” said Crowley, and watched the plant pop up gratifyingly fast, spontaneously springing a few new flowers for good measure. “I could give another talk, but it would nae end well for ye.”

Aziraphale’s face went through a complicated series of emotions. “What are you doing here?”

“Returning this,” said Crowley, holding out the wilted bow tie, “And—”

He gently pushed Aziraphale down, onto the grass. The angel went gratifyingly easily.

Crowley pressed a kiss to the edge of his slack mouth. “Returning the favour.”

The angel still tasted the same, hot and—after a brief moment of unresponsiveness—tremblingly eager. Crowley kissed him until he felt like he was going to burst out of his own skin, until Aziraphale gave little sighs into the kiss, clutching at Crowley’s shoulders and arms.

Crowley reached between Aziraphale’s legs and found a rather substantial bulge.

“Why, angel,” he said.

Aziraphale turned pink, practically glowing under the moonlight. “It’s so the trousers fit correctly!” he sputtered, “You don’t know how different tailoring can be without the right measurements.”

Crowley’s blackened heart swelled two sizes. “Aye, right,” he said, “It’s nae vanity when an angel does—”

He froze. Aziraphale had gone stiff under his hands, and not in a good way.

Crowley sat back on his heels. “I was joking,” he said.

“Oh sure, a joke,” said Aziraphale, stiffly. “Just like it was a joke when you kissed me, and wore tartan for me, and—”

“What in Hea— He— what are ye talking about?” said Crowley.

“They bowed down to them and provoked the Lord to anger,” whispered Aziraphale, “For they forsook Him and served Baal and the Ashtoreths.”

Quoting the Book at a time like this. Crowley got up in a fit of indignation, only to trip over his own skirt.

He looked down at himself in surprise.

Tartan-trimmed boots, silk stockings—he’d completely forgotten that he was still wearing the same clothes as the day before. He started to change, only to be stopped by a hand on his wrist.

“No, leave it,” said Aziraphale. There was a different look in his eye. Crowley would call it wonder if he didn’t know better.

Crowley licked his dry lips. “What would you have me do?”

Aziraphale’s hand was so warm on his knee.

“Anything you want,” he said, discomfitingly earnest.

Crowley felt poleaxed at the possibilities before him. He could lay the angel on the grass before him and have him, he could take him to the Ritz and feed him ridiculously decorated sweets, he could bring him every book there was under the sun and watch him read them all.

He looked at the angel sitting before him, proud and vain and increasingly embarrassed at the silence.

“All right,” Aziraphale was saying, “If you didn’t want anything, you could just say—”

Crowley silenced him with a kiss.

It was different from the other kisses. For one, Aziraphale kept trying to argue through it, for another, Crowley kept smiling too hard to try anything fancy. He was reduced to pressing kisses over Aziraphale’s nose and cheek while still snickering, until the angels grumbling subsided away.

And then Aziraphale turned his head just as Crowley did and they were kissing, and it was only natural to keep kissing him, to climb on top of him, to push aside all the offending buttons and clasps and articles of clothing and just sink onto Aziraphale’s cock.

Crowley’s cunt was still tender from his own rough fingers, and he gasped as he sank slowly down, welcoming the sweet ache.

Aziraphale was wide-eyed under him, the moonlight illuminating his eyes and his lips and his silver-blond hair. His hands ran up Crowley’s thigh, and Crowley shivered at the sudden cool of the night air, his stockings and boots disappearing under Aziraphale’s touch.

“I could change it,” he said, “You want lace? Fishnet?”

“I want _you_ ,” said Aziraphale, his eyes hot and greedy, and vanished Crowley’s skirt.

He stroked up Crowley’s back, his hand raising goosebumps in its wake as Crowley’s blouse disappeared, and cupped Crowley’s breasts in his demure chemise before vanishing that too. That left only his knickers, bunched up where they were joined.

Aziraphale ran his knuckles over the lace edge, up the tartan-print silk, and then it wasn't there, like it had never been.

His face was no less awed when it was gone, though, his fingers tracing the crease where Crowley’s legs bent to their junction, cupping his mound before gently finding his clit.

Crowley had been for a while Queen of the Night, Ashtoreth of the Mount of Olives, worshipped with love and gold in sacred groves like this one. Seated upon his throne, he drew upon his wings and placed the horns of the moon once again upon his head.

“Look at you,” said Aziraphale, as Crowley began to move.

“Well then let me look at you,” said Crowley, and swept away all of Aziraphale’s layers of wool a gesture.

The pink went all the way down Aziraphale’s chest, fading into the delightful softness of his belly. The angel gasped when Crowley palmed his stomach.

“Stop that. It tickles,” said Aziraphale, trying to slap away Crowley’s hands. Crowley caught his hands before he could unbalance him, and then suddenly they were holding hands.

Crowley wasn’t sure which of them shivered first, but then Aziraphale adjusted his grip and Crowley could use his handhold to thrust harder against his cock. A familiar feeling was building low in his belly, electricity arcing between where they were joined, cunt and cock and hands.

“Tell me you’re close,” said Crowley, trembling and gasping and completely unable to stop thrusting, but then Aziraphale adjusted his grip again, his thumb brushing against the pulse point of Crowley’s wrist.

Crowley couldn’t keep from coming if he tried. He was dimly aware of being pushed to the grass, shuddering and clenching around Aziraphale's cock and still coming, oh Hell, and then the angel was thrusting and thrusting, and it was too much and—

“Oh, look at you,” said Aziraphale, his weight pressing Crowley into the soft, grassy earth, and came in him.

In another lifetime, Crowley would regain use of his limbs, and his tongue, and maybe even his brain.

In this one, he was content to lie under the comforting weight of Aziraphale, pressing together all along their bodies and wings. The moon was again somewhere high above their heads. Somewhere else a nightjar gave its rattling cry.

Around them, the hedges towered, newly three meters high. A profusion of flowers bloomed out of season, and the pansies overflowed their pot.

Aziraphale sighed. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to trim the plants back?”

Warmth spread through Crowley’s limbs despite the night breeze. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said lightly, “Doesn’t your kind do the miracles?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Crowley was really Not Good with animals. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2A stray curl happened in Ashtoreth's hairstyle once. It never made that mistake again. [ return to text ]
> 
> 3Also Leaver of Small Toys Where They Can Be Stepped On, Watcher of the Same Movie for the Five Hundredth Time, and Master of Earworms. [ return to text ]
> 
> 4It was possible Crowley’s knowledge of Americans started and ended with Mission Impossible films. [ return to text ]
> 
> 5False modesty being one of his more creative inventions. [ return to text ]


End file.
